Tennis, Pain, Birds
Forget about this if you aren’t “in it” yet. But if you have received your AARP card, read on.
I grudgingly (just to shut my boyfriend up) started to learn tennis at the tender age of fifty. Surprise! Within 4 years was at US National Championships, came in 5th in the U.S. The problem is, my Rambo style brought to the surface serious and unknown spinal issues I was born with that went untreated until they took me down (a bit) at 60. Winters are tough on me.
Now I know why old timers used the phrase “I can feel it in my bones.” I thought they were psychic then; I know the throbbing aches now.
I walk because I know I must: I have a Border Collie, and on good days (hot days) Lulu and I might dance on the patio to the tunes of Jim Croche. I now know why the snowbirds flock to Florida and to deserts
Tending my garden could do me in, but it keeps me in high spirits: my families of birds at their feeders hang out with me, watching for fresh water in their ground dishes, chirping, perhaps calling me names – I really don’t know. The flowers in summer are spirit-lifting and harvesting the veggies a joy. The birds keep me company as I work staying within a safe yard from me as I move about the plants. I enjoy their music and this makes me happy. Recently I learned to imitate mourning dove calls, and do pretty well whistling back at mocking birds. I’m sure I confuse them, but they call back to me now, so I guess it’s working.
I learned about crows a few seasons ago when my grandson accompanied me to the optometrist and coerced me into buying fashionable black rimmed glasses so I could look cool. Sometime after getting these new glasses he and I came home from shopping, and I heard a crow screaming. Screaming in MY yard!
I looked up, and perched at the apex of MY roof squatted a high-gloss black boat-shaped hellion. I pay the taxes! This is my house! I hate the noise crows make!
Without a thought I reached down and picked up a sizeable stone and aimed it at the bird. And as soon as my missile hit his butt he shrieked and jumped straight up in the air.
“Dude! You have an arm!”
I looked at grandson and nodded my head.
“Did you just call your grandma “Dude,” Dude?”
He was twelve, and he blushed as he nodded his head.
As the summer passed I realized crows had completely disappeared from our neighborhood.
I rejoiced in a silence occasionally blessed with birdsongs.
That fall I watched an educational piece on the subject of crows and learned that Crows are one of the three species that have facial recognition: humans, chimpanzees, crows.
And, not only do crows have facial recognition, they pass information to other friend -crows and to their young. Facial recognition is handed down from generation to generation:
“Watch out for the crazy blonde with black-rimmed glasses: she’s a mean old bat!”
For years we went crow free. But they came back, dispersing cigarette butts, walnut shells and cherry pits throughout my garden. Harrumph!
I suspected the crows might be suffering from memory-loss, perhaps had received their AARB Cards.
Then I realized that I needed to ditch my new glasses and put on the old black-rims, my War Glasses every time I go outside.
Not a cawgh has been heard in my neighborhood since.